Page 54 of In Frame
Leo did the start-and-stop typing again. Sam wondered suddenly how many people had ever said those words to Leo Whyte: I’ll be here, I want to know how things go, you’re important to me.
He had a feeling the number was lower than anyone realized. He disliked that feeling with vast intensity.
I will, Leo answered.I promise.
Thank you.
For talking to you? Hardly. By the way, don’t be nervous about Jason and Colby! Jason’s a teddy bear under all the muscles and Colby will attempt to buy you a castle if you express any interest at all. You may need to protect him from his own generosity.
Sam, glancing around at palatial opulence, had to agree. Long curtains fluttered at him, airy coquettes framing sun and sky.
He answered,Trying not to be too nervous. Thanks again. Gotta go, but I’ll talk to you later?
Leo this time sent him a gif of animated dancing seahorses, which Sam figured meant yes in that color-drenched whimsical vocabulary; he watched them bob up and down, and ended up smiling.
Right. Getting ready. Meeting Jason. A job. Not running late. Demonstrating his professionalism, his gratitude, his completely sincere amazement that the hottest celebrity couple on the planet had extended this chance. They’d asked whether he needed some time to settle in. Sam, trying to be as eager and accommodating as possible, had said no, the flight wasn’t that long, he could absolutely meet up for lunch and talk about plans for the week, whatever they wanted.
He ran into the bathroom, marveled at the lake of bathtub—it had gold fixtures—and brushed his teeth just in case because he’d had coffee on the plane, and checked everything else in the mirror. His reflection regarded him: a hint of stubble over tanned skin, dark hair in casual short waves, eyes the same golden-brown as usual but with trepidation and excitement having a battle in the background.
He’d put on a decent dark blue button-down shirt and also decent but flexible grey pants, getting ready. He had no ideawhat Jason and Colby had planned for lunch, and he wanted to show them that he was taking this seriously, that he wanted to be here, that he could be ready for anything, and also he was more or less working for them now and he really did know how to look like someone who had not made a living out of sleazy scandalous photography.
He ran out of the bathroom, grabbed his jacket—black, lightweight, unobtrusive, old but not too noticeably so—and took a deep breath.
As predicted, Jameson had wanted to send him to Atlanta, to that superhero movie location; several of the other editors and publishers Sam sometimes freelanced for would’ve also liked that. Set leaks would’ve been fantastic, and there’d been rumors about the heroic lead having a boyfriend; lots of cameras would be circling. Sam had said he couldn’t go, he’d had something come up, but it might lead to something significant; he’d hinted that it might have to do with Colby Kent and the Los Angeles premiere ofSteadfast, and Jameson had told him that it’d better be good, with an ominous implication ofyou need my money more than I need you, and had hung up the phone.
At least five, probably more, of the Colby pictures would have to go to theDaily World Newsif he wanted to preserve that relationship. Exclusively so. For Jameson’s use.
He swallowed around the newfound lump in his throat. Eyed the tip of one shoe, the worn familiarity of his Converse forming a paradox against plush five-star hotel carpeting.
He had the momentary impulse to call Jason and say he couldn’t do this, he wasn’t good enough for this, they could find a real celebrity photographer, someone with a reputation and recognition—or maybe he could call Leo and cling to that fantastical voice, irrepressible and English and bubbling over with emotion—
Leo was busy. Commitments, confessions, of his own.And Leo had done this, had arranged this, for him.
Sam squared shoulders, scooped up his phone and his small Nikon—neither expensive, and both a few years old—and figured he could shove the camera into a pocket if photography wasn’t requested yet, or he could use it on the spot if Jason and Colby asked. Either way, he’d be prepared.
Leo, he thought, believed in him. Enough to ask for this, for him. So maybe—
He shut the door behind himself, and went down the hall to the elevators, which were also gold, in a dark and subtly gleaming way: smug in the knowledge of their own worth.
The excitement emerged anew: not without nerves, but giddy and beckoning.
He’d get to do this. He’d get to meet Jason Mirelli and Colby Kent. He’d try his best for them, for Leo’s friends. And he’d hear from Leo later, the two of them coming together at the end of the day. Here for each other.
Yes, he thought. Yes.
* * * *
Leo, letting himself into his parents’ cluttered but tidy house, shut the door and gazed at a pink-painted wall and the multiple coat-hooks and the framed poster depicting Sir Laurence Taylor inMacbethat the Coronation Theatre in 1996, and let home sink into his bones. All the way to his toes. Up to his hair.
He wondered momentarily whether his hair had memories, and if it did, whether his had forgiven him for the terrible bleach-blond dye job a decade or so ago. Probably, he decided. He got on well enough with his hair these days.
He shrugged out of his jacket. Hung it up.
His mother’s voice floated over from the back office: “Leo,is that you? Stand and unfold yourself!”
Leo shouted back, “You come most carefully upon your hour!” because it was the next line ofHamlet, and then, “But that’s wrong,I’mthe one coming in to findyou!” while wandering through the sitting room and dining room and kitchen, navigating dentistry-related journal towers and time-worn squishy chairs. “Mum, why’s there a sword in the umbrella stand?”
“So I remember to take it back, of course.” His mother popped out of the office, beaming at him. They’d always looked alike; Leo took after her in tall height, thick dark blond hair, expressive eyebrows. Harriet Whyte had browner eyes—Leo’s own hazel had come out midway between his parents’ woodsmoke and emerald—and the inexhaustible energy of a greyhound before a race, assuming that greyhound also knew how to wield a broadsword, speak Latin, and manage the finances for one of the oldest and most intimate examples of London’s theatre world. “I borrowed it for some practice with that grip. It’s for a production ofBlood and Sandnext month. Oh, those’re lovely, thank you—”
